Cascade Caper
by Susan M. M
Summary: The ISD needs the help of the Cascade police to protect a visiting African dignitary. But why did Mr. Cross specifically request Detectives Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg?
1. Chapter 1

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. _

"The Cascade Caper"

_Sentinel/She Spies_

Susan M. M.

Originally published in Ouch! #18 from Neon RainBow Press

****

"Ellison, Sandburg, my office, now," ordered Captain Simon Banks.

Detective Jim Ellison and his partner, Det. Blair Sandburg, exchanged puzzled glances with each other. Neither could think of anything they'd done that would merit the captain calling them into his office to chew them out in private. And they knew they hadn't done anything that would have him calling them in for a commendation.

Ellison, a tall blue-eyed man with short brown hair, led the way to Simon's office. Blair followed; his wavy dark hair was long for a plain-clothes detective, but far shorter than it had been when he was just a police observer, before officially joining the Cascade Police Department a few years ago. A good head shorter than Simon and Jim, and several years younger, he looked like a child beside them.

"I'm pulling you off the Kent case. Turn it over to Henri. And the Wu robbery – give that to Connor. The Dell case, hmm," the African-American captain thought about to whom he could reassign that case. "Give your files on that to Paulson."

"Sir?" Jim asked respectfully. Although he and Simon had been friends for years, at the precinct he tried to maintain a professional distance.

"All our cases? What's up, man?" Blair asked.

Simon gave Blair a weary, but exasperated look. He had yet to teach Blair the semi-military discipline expected by the police force, and he'd given up trying. "You know who Jacques Moyo'ema is?"

"Dr. Moyo'ema? Of course," Blair replied. "Nobel nominee four years running – they say he has a good chance of actually getting the award this year. Peace activist, social critic, political reformer."

"He's coming to the US. Speech at the United Nations in New York, addressing Congress and dinner with the president in Washington, getting an award at the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, attending a medical convention in Chicago, and then coming to Cascade for the Food for the World conference, followed by some R&R in the mountains. You'll be in charge of his security while he's in town."

"Us? Why?" Jim asked.

"Damned if I know," Simon confessed. "The feds requested you."

Blair's blue eyes widened. "They did?"

"Some alphabet soup called," Simon picked up a fax from his desk, "ISD requested you by name. Said they wanted the two of you as local liaison for their security team that'll be accompanying Moyo'ema."

"ISD? They work for the State Department – the sunglasses and dark suits boys," Blair said. "International Security Department, I think."

Simon shook his head. Like most police officers, he had little use for feds. "At any rate, clear your desks. Start preparing security arrangements. Until Moyo'ema leaves Cascade, this is your only assignment."

Jim and Blair traded startled glances. Only on badly written TV shows did police officers have the luxury of working on one case at a time.

"Yes, sir," Jim replied.

#####

"Good morning, ladies," Quentin Cross greeted the three beautiful women who reported to his office. "Would you get the blinds, please, Cassie?"

Cassie McBain, a tall blonde who'd been a con artist before being recruited by the ISD, shut the Venetian blinds.

Cross gestured at the empty chairs, a gesture that was half-invitation, half-order. The spymaster was a handsome man in his mid-forties whose dark hair was going prematurely gray. The three agents code-named 'She Spies' sat down. He suppressed a smile; he was fonder of the trio than he would ever admit to, but he had a reputation for ruthlessness to maintain. He pushed a button, and a picture of a distinguished looking, middle-aged African man appeared on the screen.

"Dr. Moyo'ema," D. D. Cummings identified him. She was the youngest of the three agents, a pretty blonde a head shorter than her team mates.

"What do you know about him?" Cross asked. He didn't want to waste time repeating what they already knew.

"Either an international hero or a meddling busybody, depending on your point of view," replied Shane Phillips. The ex-thief had long brown hair in curly waves and a café-au-lait complexion.

"He was on the news last night," Cassie added. "Giving a speech at the UN about war and famine in Africa."

D. D. nodded "He was doing the Rodney King bit, 'can't we all get along?' "

"He'd better be careful," Shane warned facetiously. "The last time somebody said people should be nice to each other and stop fighting, He got nailed to a tree."

Cross raised an eyebrow at her irreverence. "The ISD has been given the job of ensuring his security while he's in the US. Our east coast branch is currently protecting him. However, once he reaches Denver, he becomes your responsibility."

"Lucky us," Cassie said.

"There have been several threats against Dr. Moyo'ema's life," Cross informed them. "I expect you to be by his side, 24/7."

"What about when he goes to the men's room?" D. D. asked.

"That's why I'm coming with you to Cascade," Cross replied.

"Cascade? Isn't that up north, in Oregon or Washington?" Shane asked.

"Washington," Cross confirmed. He pushed another button, and a copy of Moyo'ema's itinerary appeared on the screen.

Cassie exhaled. "That's a busy schedule for a man half his age."

"Which is why after the Food for the World seminar finishes, he's going to take a few days' vacation in the mountains outside Cascade. Dress warmly; it's cool in the mountains, even at this time of year," Cross admonished them. "One of the FFTW administrators owns a cabin, and she's insisting on Dr. Moyo'ema taking a break."

"A log-cabin, outhouse twenty feet away through the rain cabin, or a 'cabin' the way summer houses in the Hamptons are called cottages?" asked Shane. The daughter of a pair of wealthy, social-climbing attorneys, she knew all about the foibles of the rich, especially the _noveau riche_.

"It has indoor plumbing," Cross confirmed.

"Why are you coming? Why not Duncan?" Cassie asked.

"Or Jack?" added Shane.

"Duncan already put in for vacation time for that time period, weeks ago. As for Jack, he's on field duty in Europe. I'm not going to pull him back from his current assignment just so you four can celebrate old-home week when you're supposed to be guarding Dr. Moyo'ema," said Cross.

"Duncan's going to San Diego," D. D. said.

Duncan Ballew, ISD's top techno-geek, had requested vacation time so he could attend the San Diego Comic-Con. He'd failed to graduate from MIT, because he'd missed his final exams to attend a comic book convention in New York.

Jack Mitchell was an ISD analyst who'd been the original supervisor of the She Spies program. However, when he'd been promoted to field agent status, the experimental program had been turned over to Cross, who juggled supervising the three ex-criminals with his administrative duties as director of the west coast branch of the ISD.

"Not to be rude, but … are you up to this?" Cassie asked as discreetly as possible.

"I'll leave the running and jumping to you," he promised. Cross had been invalided out of field duty and into administration after he'd been shot. While physical therapy had permitted him to walk and live normally, he could no longer chase a suspect, climb a fence, etc. He handed each of them a manila folder. "We're coordinating Dr. Moyo'ema's security with the local police department. These are the arrangements that they've made."

The three ladies opened the folders and began skimming the data inside.

"I don't need to tell you that there are people in Washington that don't approve of the 'She Spies' program. The Chairman thinks that if you do a good job with Dr. Moyo'ema, it might shut up some of your critics," explained Cross.

"What, a hundred percent success rate isn't good enough for them?" demanded Cassie. "How are we supposed to improve on that?"

"You could try finishing an assignment under budget for once," Cross suggested mildly. "And you have to maintain a hundred percent success rate. Anything else …"

"… means we go back to prison," the trio said in unison.

"Do you really need to remind us of that every single mission?" Cassie complained. "We're not likely to forget."

"I don't remind you every single mission."

"Sure feels like it," D. D. muttered.

Her partners turned to stare at the computer hacker. Normally D. D. made Pollyanna look as gloomy as Eeyore.

Cross frowned. If Little Miss Perky was complaining of his repeating the warning overmuch, perhaps he was. "You have enemies. You can't afford to slip up. I don't want to lose my best agents just because some DC bureaucrat disapproves of your … unusual background."

The three criminals-turned-spies traded pleased glances. Praise from Cross was as rare as free parking in Los Angeles.

"Familiarize yourself with the security arrangements. Let me know if you have any questions." Cross picked up another manila file. "Dismissed."

The three ladies walked out of Cross' office. His eyes lingered on Cassie's lithe form just a little longer than professional etiquette permitted.

####

A tall blond man was waiting for Cross and his ladies as they disembarked from the airplane at Denver International Airport. His Brooks Brothers suit bulged conspicuously over his gun.

"Steve." Cross smiled a greeting and reached out to shake his hand.

The blond smiled back. He gave Cross a quick, hearty handshake. "Is it still Quentin, or do I need to call you Mr. Cross now that you've been kicked upstairs to administration?"

"Always Quentin to you. Ladies, Agent Steve Wrede." Cross gestured at his traveling companions with a quick nod of his head. "Agents McBain, Cummings, and Phillips." The She Spies smiled at Wrede.

"So, these must be your jailbirds?"

D. D. lost her warm smile. Cassie scowled. Shane's brown eyes narrowed, as she gauged the distance from her toes to his testicles, silently measuring whether she could kick his groin in one movement, or if she would need to lunge first.

Cross' smile never faltered. His voice remained even as he corrected gently, "These are my best agents."

Wrede hadn't become a top ISD agent by being stupid. He quickly realized his mistake. "I stand corrected. My apologies."

Cross nodded, his smile still frozen on his face, but his brown eyes no longer warm. "Where's Dr. Moyo'ema?"

"In the VIP Lounge, giving another press conference." Wrede shook his head. "He's not at all shy when it comes to meeting with the Fourth Estate. Come with me, and I'll take you to him."

"Our luggage?" Cassie asked.

"My people are taking care of it," Wrede assured her. He glanced up nervously at his former friend. Before being shot in the back by a rogue FBI agent during a joint operation, and promoted to administration after his recovery, Quentin Cross had been one of ISD's top agents. He was capable of killing a man seventeen different ways in as many seconds, without making a sound or getting a single hair out of place. He was the last person a sane man would want to annoy. And Wrede wasn't crazy. Cross still looked friendly enough, but Wrede was too experienced to trust outward appearances. Before joining ISD, he'd been a Naval Intelligence officer. To kill the time during the long months at sea, he and his navy colleagues had played Dungeons & Dragons and other role-playing games. A line from his D&D days popped into his mind: Worry when the game master smiles.

For a few minutes no one said anything. The She Spies hadn't forgiven Agent Wrede yet, he was afraid of inserting his foot in his mouth again, and Quentin Cross rationed his words like he did his bullets under the best of circumstances – which these weren't.

"I'm glad you're taking over," Wrede said after a moment. "Dr. Moyo'ema has been running me and my team ragged. Hope you've been taking your vitamins, or you won't be able to keep up with him," he warned.

Cassie gave Cross a concerned look, then snapped her eyes back in front of her, like a young private snapping to attention, lest he notice her gaze.

Wrede noticed the ex-con woman's glance. From what he'd heard, Cross had been forbidden to return to field duty. _So what is he doing out here_, Wrede wondered, _and is he able to do it? Did his ex-cons require __that__ close supervision that he's willing to risk his health?_ Wrede considered Quentin Cross his friend, but his duty to the ISD came before loyalty to an old friend. If Moyo'ema were killed when the She Spies were supposed to be protecting him, it would reflect badly on the whole agency, not just an experimental program in "creative" community service.

"So, what are you doing here?" Wrede kept his voice casual as they walked down the airport corridor. "I thought they kept you chained to a desk."

"That's why I'm here," Cross confessed with a chuckle. "Officially, I'm here because Dr. Moyo'ema is important enough to merit my personal attention. Unofficially, I needed a break from playing the Rajah of Red Tape."

In the VIP Lounge, a tall, slender man in a red, yellow, and blue dashiki and red trousers faced a crowd of reporters. His skin was very dark, almost a true black rather than the brown skin of most African-Americans. Beneath his red kufi, his short black hair was tinged with gray.

"My Africa is an unhappy land. In Sudan, slavery still exists. Your newspapers call it 'ethnic and religious persecution' when they mention it at all, but that is only a faint whisper of the truth: genocide and slavery. Zimbabwe has the world's highest inflation rate, 80% unemployment, and since 1988, the average lifespan has declined from 62 to 38. In Uganda, an estimated 14,000 children have been abducted, abused, and forced to become child-soldiers. In Equatorial Guinea, there is no freedom of speech, nor of the press. Most people there live on less than one dollar a day, or attempt to. In Nigeria, oil spills pollute the land and water – oil that goes to foreign drilling companies, while the people do without electricity or depend on aged generators. Every day, AIDS decimates the continent, creating countless orphans.

If something is not done, and done soon, Africa will be a barren continent," Dr. Moyo'ema predicted.

"Dr. Moyo'ema," one of the reporters called out, "are you saying that Africa was better off during colonial days?"

"Do not put words in my mouth," the social reformer scolded the reporter. "Surely you are too professional to waste your time and mine on 'have you stopped beating your wife' questions."

A few of the other reporters chuckled.

"And I would remind the gentleman of Gandhi's aphorism on western civilization," Dr. Moyo'ema added, smiling to take the sting out of his words.

"What did Gandhi say about western civilization?" Shane whispered.

"That he thought it would be a good idea," D. D. whispered back.

Shane grinned.

"But Dr. Moyo'ema, are you saying that the United States is responsible for solving the problems of Africa?" another reporter asked.

"Are we not all responsible for one another?" Dr. Moyo'ema parried. "When I was at the Sorbonne, I read the works of John Donne – in translation, of course. You are, I hope, familiar with his verse. 'No man is an island …any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind_._' Before Africa can concentrate on solving its political and economic problems, the people must survive. Even the missionaries who came to Africa in the days of Victoria and Leopold knew they must save the body before they could save souls. First the people must eat. Only then can they have the strength to become self-sufficient, to manage without American and European charity."

"Doctor!" One reporter after another called out for his attention.

"Dr. Moyo'ema?"

"One more question, sir."

"Your headache now, Quentin," Wrede said.

Cross nodded, his face still calm and implacid. (_Is that the word I want?)_

Wrede signaled to a guard at the front of the room. The agent nodded and stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid that's all we have time for. Dr. Moyo'ema has a plane to catch. Thank you very much."

Other ISD agents began gently shooing the reporters out of the room. Wrede waited until they had gone before leading Cross and his ladies forward.

"Dr. Moyo'ema, may I present your new security escort?" Wrede asked. "This is Quentin Cross, of our west coast branch, and three of his best agents."

Cross shook hands with the doctor. "It's a pleasure and a privilege to be working with you, sir. Agent Cassie McBain."

Cassie stepped forward and shook hands. "Doctor."

"Agent Shane Phillips."

Shane nodded; she also shook hands with the doctor.

"Agent D. D. Cummings."

"_Jambo_," she greeted him in Swahili. Switching to French, she continued, "_C'est un honneur de faire votre connaissance, monsieur_ _le docteur."_

Dr. Moyo'ema smiled at her, and began chatting to her in French.

Wrede caught Cassie's eye and gestured her over to join him. Raising one delicately arched eyebrow, she did so.

"I was out of line before," Wrede confessed. "If Quentin says you're good enough, I'd trust you to watch my back on any mission."

"But not watch your wallet?" Cassie asked wryly.

Wrede grimaced; he had that coming. "Touché." He took a deep breath. "Sorry. Am I forgiven?"

The ex-con artist considered a moment, then smiled. "Apology accepted."

"So, what are our plans now, Mr. Cross?" asked Dr. Moyo'ema.

"We'll be taking a military plane to Washington," Cross explained. "We'll land at an Air National Guard base just outside Cascade, where we'll be met by local police officers. Then we'll proceed to the hotel for the Food for the World conference."

####

After an uneventful flight, they landed in Washington. Gathering together their luggage, the ISD agents disembarked from the plane. Moyo'ema and Cross remained on the plane, waiting for the ladies to confirm everything was safe.

"Are those the detectives we're working with?" Shane asked.

"They must be," Cassie reasoned. "They're the only ones not in uniform."

"Uh-huh." D. D. nodded. "The short one's cute."

"He's also married," she heard Cross whisper in her ear.

The hacker blushed. She hadn't heard Quentin Cross come up behind her.

"Everyone ready?" Cross asked.

"Yes, sir," Cassie McBain replied briskly.

Cross ducked back into the plane to escort Dr. Moyo'ema out. Then the five of them walked toward the waiting detectives.

Jim and Blair approached Dr. Moyo'ema's party. Both displayed their IDs. "Welcome to Cascade, Doctor."

"Thank you, gentlemen." Dr. Moyo'ema shook their hands.

"Detective Ellison, Det. Sandburg, I'm Quentin Cross, ISD. My associates, Agent McBain, Agent Phillips, Agent Cummings."

Jim Ellison nodded politely. Blair smiled widely. Married or not, he still had an eye for a pretty woman, and the three ISD agents were beautiful.

###

The trip to the hotel was uneventful. The doctor settled into his suite and took a nap. Cross stayed to guard him, while Jim, Blair, Cassie, Shane, and D.D. gave the hotel a final security check. An hour before the banquet, everyone changed into more appropriate attire: tuxedoes for the gentlemen, an evening gown for Cassie, and waitress uniforms for Shane and D. D.

Jim stared at his plate. Rice. His cup held nothing but water. He flagged down a waiter. "Any chance of getting a cup of coffee and a sandwich?"

The waiter shook his head. "Sorry, sir. Not until after the banquet."

"After the banquet, I'm hitting Wonderburger," Jim muttered.

"You may not be the only one," declared the elegantly gowned socialite sitting across the table from him.

"Chef Henri has announced that the hotel restaurant will be open later than usual tonight," the waiter informed them.

"Excellent," the socialite replied. Donating to the poor and hungry was one thing; eating like them was another.

Jim wore a tuxedo. He was seated with some of Cascade's top movers and shakers, pretending to be a guest. Blair sat on the other side of the room, also mingling with the guests. Cross was at a table near the front. Agent McBain was at the head table, pretending to be Dr. Moyo'ema's aide. Agents Cummings and Phillips were disguised as waitresses. Several CPD officers were also among the waiters and banquet guests.

Dr. Moyo'ema stood to address the audience. "I realize that some of you had expected more for dinner. However, the meal in front of you – steamed rice and clean water – is more than many in Africa and Asia have to eat every day. And at 2000 calories, this is the UN guideline for the minimum calories for a day's sustenance. Not a meal, but for the whole day. And this, ladies and gentlemen, would be a banquet to many, an unbelievable bounty of excess." _Unbelievable excess of bounty?_

The murmuring of complaints amongst the diners faded away.

After dinner – which took much less time than $100 a plate dinners usually did – Dr. Moyo'ema gave the opening speech of the conference.

"The farms of America," Dr. Moyo'ema declaimed, "could feed half the world –"

A scattering of mild but patriotic applause interrupted him.

" – If modern economics and politics would permit your farmers to do so," he continued. "Some of your farmers waste arable land on tobacco, a poison. Others are paid subsidies not to raise crops, lest too bountiful a crop lower prices. Every major religion – Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism – extols charity as a virtue. Could not these subsidy farmers, having already agreed not to raise crops for profit, grow food pledged to charity, food dedicated to the hungry of the world?"

"What a beautiful idea," D. D. murmured.

"Yeah, just convince the farmers they should work twelve to fifteen hour days without getting paid," Shane replied. "I'm sure Exxon would be happy to provide them with tractor fuel for free, and the feed store could just give them –"

"Ladies, we're here to guard Dr. Moyo'ema, not to critique his speech," Cross interrupted. "Keep this channel free."

Only mild disapproval could be heard in his tone, but it was enough. The ladies instantly fell silent. A frown from Cross carried more weight than shouting from someone else. For the rest of the speech, they rotated through the banquet room, keeping their eyes and ears open for trouble.

###

A delegate took one look at Jim's face, shuddered, and hurried away.

The detective caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. One glance at his scowling face, and he understood her reaction. Taking a deep breath, he rearranged his features into a more neutral expression.

_Damn, but I hate security duty,_ he thought. Like his spirit-totem, the black jaguar, he was a hunter. Standing around waiting for trouble just wasn't his style. He'd much rather be out on the street, investigating crime, fighting criminals, not waiting for an assassin who might or might come. The past two days had been boring and depressing. He could now recite dozens of facts on hunger and malnutrition that he hadn't known before. More than 840,000,000 people in the world are chronically malnourished. 12,000,000 people die each year from the lack of safe drinking water. 91 children out of 1,000 die before their fifth birthday in developing countries. He could go on and on, and he'd been happier without the knowledge.

Plus, like any cop, he hated working with feds. There was something about the ISD agents that set him on edge. Cross he had no problem with; the man was ex-Special Forces, just like he was. The man was tough, but competent. Jim had the feeling he wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley. The women, though….

There was no denying they were capable. They'd caught some holes in the hotel security that he and Blair hadn't noticed. And there was certainly no denying that all three were beautiful; any of them could've gotten jobs as models or pin-up girls. But he just didn't get the vibes off them that he normally got off other law enforcement officers. He was reminded more of the way he felt with criminals. He shook his head. That was nonsense. It had to be the result of the normal cop/fed antipathy.

Worst of all, tonight they'd be attending the Jaguars game, and he'd have to keep his eye on Moyo'ema and possible threats, instead of watching the Jags whip the LA Lakers.

###

"How much further?" Dr. Moyo'ema inquired.

"About fifteen-twenty more minutes," Cross informed him. The men rode in an unmarked police sedan. The women preceded them in another car. "Just relax and enjoy the scenery."

"Your people already checked out the cabin and the route?" Jim asked.

"Agent McBain came up yesterday," Cross confirmed.

"Don't worry, Jim. The place checked out clean," Blair reminded his partner.

"It seems unchivalrous, letting the women go first," Dr. Moyo'ema remarked. "Like a goat staked out as bait for a leopard."

"This is the 21st century, sir. They're as capable as any man," Cross replied. "Trust me, if anyone starts shooting, they'll duck."

Jim frowned. He had that missing-word-on-the-tip-of-his-tongue sensation. There was something about the ISD agents that should've been obvious, and wasn't. The detective knew he wouldn't be able to relax until he figured it out.

###

Cassie parked the Crown Victoria she had borrowed from the Cascade PD motor pool of unmarked cars. The three women piled out of the car. D.D. took a deep breath of fresh mountain air. Shane looked at the 'cabin.' It was made of logs, and it was in the woods, so technically, she supposed it was a cabin. The building was two stories tall. Neatly manicured lilac hedges surrounded the building; potted geraniums added a splash of scarlet to the porch.

"What's it like inside?" Shane asked.

"Abe Lincoln, as interpreted by Martha Stewart," Cassie replied. "Deeds, you keep watch while Shane and I get the luggage in."

The hacker nodded. All three remembered the tongue-lashing Cross had given them the day they'd first met him for not setting a lookout and letting themselves be caught by him and a squad of ISD operatives.

"Be careful," Shane advised. "There's something about this place I don't like. Like someone was watching us."

"Probably just a bear," Cassie joked.

"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my," D. D. quoted.

Shane took one more long around before helping Cassie get the luggage out of the car. She still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching them.

###

"Shall we kill them?" Mbu asked.

Zimwima shook his head. "We must do nothing that could alert Moyo'ema to the danger he is about to face. They are only women. We will kill them after we kill Moyo'ema." He grinned maliciously. "Perhaps we will not kill them right away, eh?"

Mbu returned the grin. He pulled out his walkie-talkie and relayed Zimwima's instructions to their other two colleagues.


	2. Chapter 2

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. _

"The Cascade Caper"

_Sentinel/She Spies_

Susan M. M.

Originally published in Ouch! #18 from Neon RainBow Press

Five minutes later, Jim pulled up in front of the cabin. The four men got out. Dr. Moyo'ema stretched after the long drive, then looked up at the cabin Sarah Saturday was lending him for the next few days.

"Very nice," he said aloud. To himself, though, he could not help thinking that Sarah's vacation getaway was larger and better constructed than most homes in Africa. He glanced at the satellite dish on the roof. There were entire villages in his homeland, many of them, that did not even have electricity.

On the porch, D.D. waved. "_Jambo!"_

The assassins waited until their quarry was away from the car. They had no desire for Moyo'ema or his escort to use the vehicles for shelter or escape.

Zimwima nodded to his partner, then clicked his walkie-talkie as an almost silent signal to their two colleagues on the other side of the cabin.

Jim looked up. His enhanced hearing caught the sound. His years of experience as an Army ranger told him it was a mechanical sound, not just an animal or a distant hiker stepping on a branch. He looked around, seeking the source of the sound. "Back in the car!"

Blair bit back the temptation to ask 'what's up, man?' He knew his partner and his abilities too well. Without a word, he placed a gentle hand on the doctor's arm and started to push him back toward the car.

Shots rang out. Both back tires of Jim's car were hit. Another bullet whizzed by, and struck the engine of the Crown Victoria, piercing the radiator.

"Shane, Cassie!" D. D. called out. "Trouble!"

"They're trying to cut off our escape," realized Cross. "Into the house, fast."

Listening, peering, Jim sought the assassins. He fired. One fell from a tree. Cross drew his own gun, and fired in the direction the shots had come from. (From which the shots had come?)

A bullet flew past Dr. Moyo'ema, missing him by less than an inch.

"Hurry, in," Blair urged. He pushed the doctor ahead of him.

Another bullet flew, striking Blair in the back. He collapsed, and knocked Moyo'ema to the ground, landing on top of him.

D.D. dashed out, Shane and Cassie only seconds behind her. Cassie and D.D. pulled Blair to his feet and started to drag him to the house. Shane grabbed Moyo'ema and half-led, half-shoved him inside.

"Get to the cabin," ordered Cross. "I'll cover you."

Jim took one last shot, then sprinted for the porch. Then he knelt, aimed, and provided covering fire for Cross.

Shane opened the door, just a crack. "Stop playing macho and get in here where it's safe."

Neither the detective nor the spymaster hesitated in obeying her. She slammed the door shut behind them and locked it.

Jim looked around. Blair lay on the couch. Dr. Moyo'ema was already examining him. Cassie and D.D. crouched by the window. They were watching, but only watching, nothing more.

"Why the hell aren't you shooting at them?" the sentinel demanded. The death squad was still firing at the cabin; why weren't the women firing back? Then it clicked. All the pieces he'd noticed subconsciously, but hadn't been able to put together, beyond a vague awareness that something was missing but not what. No rustle of cloth on holster, no smell of metal and gunpowder_._ "You're unarmed," he said accusingly. "What the hell are you doing in a situation like this without a gun?"

Cassie glanced at Cross for guidance. She was unwilling to admit that as convicted felons, they weren't permitted to handle firearms_._

"The State Department wanted to keep the security presence as low-key as possible, which meant limiting how many members of the security team were armed," Cross lied smoothly. "All three are experts in hand-to-hand combat. But we don't have time to worry about that now. Right now we need to worry about that death squad, and about Det. Sandburg."

"How is he?" Jim and Cross asked simultaneously.

Dr. Moyo'ema shook his head. "The bullet will need to be removed. I take it that waiting for an ambulance is impractical under the circumstances?"

"The phone's dead," said D.D. "I already tried to call 911. And cell phones won't work here – we're in a no-service area."

"Then I shall need to remove the bullet. Did my medical kit make it inside?"

Cassie nodded. "I'll go get it."

"See if there's a liquor cabinet," the doctor told Shane. "Whiskey or brandy by preference, but something to sterilize the wound and deaden his pain."

"Dead'n' th' pain sounds good," Blair murmured.

Jim hurried to his partner's side. "Take it easy, Chief. Don't try to talk."

"Firs' time I been shot at by commandoes." Blair tried to joke. "Thass life in th' Cascade PD – never dull."

"Commando," Cross corrected automatically. "It's a plural noun. And save your strength. Ellison's right; you shouldn't be trying to talk."

"Luckily, this is not the first time I have removed bullets in less than ideal conditions," Dr. Moyo'ema informed them. "And this room is far cleaner than many clinics where I have worked. _Ahsante_," he thanked Shane and Cassie as they delivered his black bag and a large bottle of Glenlivet.

Quentin Cross thought quickly, and made a decision. Maybe the Chairman wouldn't approve, but the Chairman wasn't here. "Cassie, take Sandburg's gun."

She looked up at him, her blue-gray eyes wide and startled.

He nodded to confirm the instruction. "Take his gun. It's a little late for the department to worry about diplomatic niceties. Go to the kitchen, make sure the door is locked. Bar it if possible. Then start boiling some water for the doctor." He reached down and removed his back-up pistol from its ankle holster. "Shane, you'd better take this, just in case. D.D., help Dr. Moyo'ema."

D. D. gulped, and tried to remember her Girl Scout first aid training. Shane grinned malevolently for just a second. Then her face was calm, almost expressionless, except for the glint of anticipation in her brown eyes.

"Don't waste your ammunition. Wait until you have a clear shot," Cross instructed Shane and Jim.

The next few minutes were tense. Dr. Moyo'ema removed the bullet, then lay Blair on his back on the couch, so that the weight of his own body would put pressure on the wound. Jim and the ISD agents stayed low, trying to duck the bullets that came through the windows. They fired back, once or twice, to keep the assassins off balance. Then an uncanny quiet fell over the forest.

"Think they're giving up?" Shane asked.

Cross shook his head.

"Why aren't they charging the building?" asked Cassie.

"Don't give them any ideas," Jim scolded.

"They must have realized that their supply of ammunition is finite. They're going to try to wait us out," predicted Cross. "They may be sending for reinforcements, or waiting for us to get tired and make mistakes."

"Won't someone know something's wrong when we don't check in?" asked D.D.

Cross nodded. He was supposed to check in with ISD's LA headquarters every eight hours. And he strongly suspected that Captain Banks would expect his detectives to check in periodically. "When no on hears from us …."

"This brave young man may not have much time to wait," Moyo'ema informed them sadly.

Cross and Jim looked up.

"He has lost much blood. Very much blood. He may not be able to wait until help comes."

"Then you'll need to do a transfusion." Cross' voice was firm, commanding.

Moyo'ema spread his hands helplessly. "_Je regret – c'est_ impossible, under these conditions."

"Det. Sandburg was wounded saving your life. The least you can do is try." Brown eyes peered earnestly at the doctor. Cross rolled up his left shirt sleeve. "Sandburg and I are the same blood type."

"But I have no means to conduct a transfusion," the doctor protested.

"Every single person in this room has an IQ of 120 or higher," Cross pointed out. "Between the six of us, we ought to be able to think of something, some way to 'macgyver' a transfusion."

"Doctor, if there's something you can do, anything," Jim began. His voice trailed off, uncertain whether to beg for help or threaten for results.

"Let me think." Dr. Moyo'ema rubbed his forehead. "You are sure you're the same blood type?"

"Positive," replied Cross.

"The danger of a direct transfusion – assuming we can arrange such – is that you can donate blood faster than he can safely accept it. His veins might rupture. We would need …." Letting his voice trail off, the doctor rummaged through his medical bag. He pulled out a hazardous materials disposal bag. "This should work." He took off his stethoscope and pulled it apart. He handed the two black tubes to Cassie. "Boil these, please."

Jim watched as Dr. Moyo'ema slit two holes in either side of the hazmat bag. When Cassie returned a few minutes later with the wet tubes, he cut the end of each at an angle. Then he placed the uncut ends into the holes in the hazmat bag and fastened them into place with medical tape.

"Be brave," Dr. Moyo'ema told Blair. "This will not be pleasant."

Blair gave a little half-nod.

Taking a scalpel, the doctor made a small puncture in Cross' arm. Immediately he thrust the cut end of the black plastic tubing into the spymaster's arm, and secured it with medical tape. Then he did the same with Blair's arm. He watched carefully as gravity drove the blood from Cross' arm to the bag to Blair. He swore under his breath in Swahili. The dark tubing made it difficult to determine the speed at which the blood was flowing.

"Watch the clock," he directed D. D. "In theory, Mr. Cross should provide a unit of blood in four minutes. In six minutes, the donation must end."

"Agent Cummings is O positive," Cross informed him. "Universal donor."

D. D. gulped, uncomfortable at being volunteered.

"Let us see how this works first before we make a second attempt with another blood donor," Dr. Moyo'ema hedged.

Jim watched, unable to help, unable to look away. He touched Blair's shoulder, hoping the moral support would be enough.

Twice Dr. Moyo'ema adjusted the hazmat bag, slowing the flow of blood. He knew ruptured veins would be impossible to deal with without proper equipment.

"Six minutes," D. D. announced finally.

"I feel all right. I can give a little more," Cross insisted.

"I have no desire to have two patients," Dr. Moyo'ema informed him. "Hold this carefully," he told Shane, passing the hazmat bag to her. He removed the tube from Cross' arm and bandaged the wound. "Now we wait. We watch. And we pray."

****

Jim sat by the window, watching. He knew the assassins would be back, and he knew they'd have reinforcements. But he also kept his hyper-sensitive hearing tuned to Blair, listening to his breathing, his heartbeat. He knew he couldn't keep it up forever, or he'd zone out. For now, though, he tried to give 110%, monitoring any changes in his partner's condition.

Cross sat beside the unconscious detective. "Hold on, Blair. You can do it. You're strong. If you're anything like your mother, you've got the strength of twenty oxen … and the stubbornness of forty mules. You just have to hold on until the cavalry arrives."

Jim smiled, despite their plight. Cross' opinion of Naomi matched his own.

Cross whispered softly. "I am so proud of you, so very proud, for putting honor above honesty. Your lie was one of the noblest acts I've ever seen. I just wish I could tell you so when you're awake, but I can't." He laid his hand gently on Blair's shoulder.

Jim lost his smile. Referring to Blair's lie as a noble act – that had to be a reference to when Blair perjured himself, and claimed that his doctoral dissertation was pure fiction, when it had accidentally been released before Blair could edit Jim's real name out of it. But how did Cross know about that? It had been a nine-day-wonder locally, but it had slipped away from the public's mind years ago. The whole flap, horrid as it had been at the time, had been forgotten …at least by most. How did Cross know about it? How did he know that Blair had lied? And how did a fed, of all people, know Naomi Sandburg?

"Time to switch jobs, so we don't get stale," Jim announced. "Phillips, you take watch at the window. McBain, keep an eye on Sandburg. Cummings, you stay with Dr. Moyo'ema. Cross, come with me. We need to talk."

Cross raised an eyebrow. He was used to giving orders, not taking them.

"Uh-oh. The menfolk want to talk without us around," Shane said.

Cassie nodded. "Must be something they don't want us to worry our pretty little heads about."

Jim ignored their joking. He indicated the kitchen with his eye, then proceeded on, clearly expecting Cross to follow him. After a second's hesitation, Cross did.

In the kitchen, Jim made instant coffee. He didn't talk for a moment. After he handed Cross the mug of weak coffee, he asked, "Who the Hell are you?"

"You know who I am. Cross, ISD."

"Who are you to Blair, and who's he to you?" Jim demanded.

Cross managed to keep a poker face. Jim ignored his face and listened to his heartbeat, his respiration, observed the dilation of his pupils. His sentinel abilities made him a human lie detector. "I never met him until a few days ago," said Cross.

"You just happen to know his blood type," _and just happen to have the same blood type,_ Jim thought. He took a sip of his own coffee. "You hid it, but you were nearly as upset as I was when he was shot."

"For the time being, he's part of my team. Naturally, I'm upset when one of my team is hurt."

_Truth, but only a half-truth, _Jim judged. "You specifically requested the two of us as security liaison. You talk about Naomi as if you know her."

"I did, a long time ago_,_" Cross admitted. "I haven't seen her in years."

"How long ago?" Jim was putting the pieces together, and he didn't like the answers he was getting. "Who are you to have the right to be proud of Blair?"

Cross sighed. He'd forgotten about Jim's hearing. "Let's just say I'm a friend of the family."

"How good a friend, and how long ago?" Jim persisted.

"I met her at a Vietnam protest. We were … very close, at one time."

"You were an _agent provocateur_?"

Cross shook his head. "I was protesting against the war. So was she."

"You?" Jim stared at the spy. He looked like the sort of man who would've served in 'Nam, or at the very least, been opposed to the anti-war protests.

"My brother Geoffrey was killed in 'Nam. I joined the protest movement so no one else's brother would die in a senseless war. Naomi believed in peaceful protests; she felt using violence made you no better than 'the warmongers of the military-industrial complex'." Quoting Naomi brought her face to mind, and his face softened into a half-smile. "One rally, someone decided more drastic measures would get our point across better. Things got … messy. The police started arresting people. The next thing I knew, a pretty redhead grabbed my hand and ran off, dragging me to safety. My parents thought I was insulting Geoff's memory by protesting against Vietnam. If I'd been arrested at a protest …" He shook his head. "They would have grounded me until I was 35. Naomi and I were alone, young and frightened, and we comforted each other."

Technically, Naomi had probably been guilty of statutory rape, or at least contributing to the delinquency of a minor, but Cross had been of no mind to press charges against her, then or now. If his mother had ever found out, though ….

"So where were you when Blair was born? The day he started school? When he needed a father to teach him how to ride a bike or throw a ball? When he needed someone to explain girls to him, or to show him how to drive?" Jim demanded.

"I didn't even know he existed until he was fifteen," Cross explained. "When I found out that Naomi had a son, I looked her up. I asked her if he was mine."

"And?"

Cross gestured at his three-piece suit. "She was horrified at what I'd become. She thought I sold out to the Establishment. She admitted it was possible that I was Blair's father, but other men were more likely. Naomi's like H. G. Wells," he added. "She believed in free love. I asked about blood tests, maybe a DNA test … it was still experimental technology back then." Cross let his voice trail off.

After a moment, Jim prompted, "And the tests revealed?"

"She refused to permit any testing. She asked me to leave them alone, to stay away from Blair and out of their lives. Since I was in a dangerous line of work, it seemed best to honor her wishes. If Blair was my son, I didn't want him to become a target." Actually she'd said a lot more than that, but Cross saw no reason to explain to Det. Ellison that Naomi had told him that she hoped he wasn't Blair's father.

"So you just turned your back on him?"

"I did what I could, under the circumstances. I arranged a partial scholarship for him, when he started college a year later." And while he'd never used ISD resources to spy on Blair, or support him, he'd read every monograph Blair had ever published, and followed his career as best he could.

Jim nodded. "Blair told me he'd been really lucky with grants and scholarships to help him pay for grad school. That was you?"

"Not all of them. Some he earned on his own merit." Cross couldn't quite keep a note of pride out of his voice.

Jim thought a moment. It had taken years for Naomi to learn to use the words 'policeman' or 'cop' naturally, instead of saying 'pigs' to him and his co-workers. Not that she'd ever called him a pig to his face, but you could tell she had to stop and think about her phrasing. She would cross the street to spit in a fed's face. What Cross said made sense. She wouldn't want a spy in Blair's life.

"If I hadn't broken my promise, if I hadn't given in to the urge to meet Blair in person, he would never have been shot," he murmured ruefully.

Jim turned just before there was a knock on the kitchen door.

Cassie stood there. "Blair's awake. Dr. Moyo'ema wants him to have some water."

Jim filled a cup at the sink and hurried to his partner's side.

"How long have you been there?" Cross asked.

"Long enough to know that what you were discussing is none of my business." Her blue-gray eyes had glared at Cross in frustration or anger many times, but she'd never looked up at him sympathetically before.

****

Simon Banks glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. Even allowing for bad roads, Ellison and Sandburg should've made it up to that cabin over an hour ago. He looked around the squad room. It was nearly empty, except for Rafe and Megan. Everyone else was out fighting crime, a never-ending struggle.

Rafe Taggert was on the phone, trying to nag the lab for faster results. _CSI_ and _NCIS_ and such shows gave the public a skewed view of police investigations; in real life the lab took a lot longer and delivered a lot less.

Megan Connor was at her computer, typing up a report. Or trying to. Simon didn't need Jim's senses to observe the way her eyes kept flicking from the PC to the clock to the phone, or that her fingers were stumbling, making and correcting more mistakes than usual. It was a good thing they didn't actually type anymore, or she would've wasted a lot of paper and ink.

The dark-skinned captain walked over to Megan. He tried to keep his voice casual. "Connor, you heard from that man of yours yet?"

Worried green eyes looked up at him. "No, and he was supposed to give me a 'down and safe' when they got to the cabin."

Rafe put his hand over the receiver. "Blair and Jim are trouble magnets, Simon, and you know it."

"Yeah," Simon muttered under his breath. "Yeah, they are." Without another word, he returned to his office. He shuffled through his files until he found his copy of the security arrangements for Dr. Moyo'ema. He dialed the phone number for the cabin. He heard what sounded like a fast busy signal. He swore; that was the no circuit signal. Then he tried Ellison's cell phone.

"The party you are trying to reach is out of range or unavailable."

He got the same message when he dialed Blair's cell phone, and again when he dialed Quentin Cross'. Simon gently replaced the receiver, resisting the urge to slam it down. He swore quietly. After a deep breath, he picked up the phone again. He flipped through his Rolodex, hunting for the number he needed. Then he dialed the Thurston County Sheriff's Office.

"Deputy Dave Korossy, please." Simon waited a minute to be transferred. "Dave? Simon Banks. Yeah, doing fine. He's fine, too. Darryl's growing like a weed. How are Ruth and the twins? Good, good." He listened for a minute.

"Dave, I need a favor. Two of my people are escorting a VIP up in your territory. "Yes, that's the one. Yes, I know we should've informed you officially in advance, but the feds wanted to keep this low-key. You know what a publicity hound your boss is; he'd have tried to get his picture in the paper with Moyo'ema and call the radio station his brother-in-law owns to announce his security plans to all and sundry."

Simon nodded and listened. "Long and short of it is, my people haven't called in. Their cell phones are in a no-service area, and the phone at the cabin is out of service. Could you divert a chopper, maybe do a quick fly-by to make sure there's no sign of trouble? Or send a car up to check out the cabin? Call it a gesture in the interest of interdepartmental cooperation. Okay, then call it payback for never telling Ruth about the time -- Thanks, Dave. 'Preciate it."

Simon hung up the phone. He sighed, wishing he could do more.

***

Jim cocked his head, listening. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" D. D. asked.

"Helicopter," Jim replied succinctly.

Shane turned to Cassie. "I don't hear anything."

Cassie shrugged. "Maybe he's like Radar on M*A*S*H."

"The cavalry coming?" asked Cross.

"Maybe. Or reinforcements for them, or just an innocent bystander," Jim said.

"Let's take a chance on it being the cavalry," suggested Cross. He fired his pistol out the window.

***

"Did you hear that?" Deputy Todd Whitecloud asked his partner.

"Gunshot," confirmed Deputy Max McCaskell. "And right where Korossy asked us to look for trouble. Let's take a closer look."

Whitecloud steered the helicopter in the direction of the gunshot. They approached the cabin. Using the loudspeaker, he called out, "This is the Thurston County Sheriff's Office. Is everything all right?"

Suddenly a hailstorm of bullets attacked the chopper.

"Everything is not all right," McCaskell announced, lifting the helicopter to a higher altitude. "Call for back up and let's get out of here."

Whitecloud nodded.

***

"While the helicopter distracts bad guys, how about we take the fight to them," Jim suggested. "I could sneak out the back door, try to flank them."

Cross thought a moment. "Risky."

"I was Special Forces in the army." Jim assured him, "I can do this."

Cross nodded his consent. "Take Phillips and McBain as back-up."

"Just one," Jim countermanded. He didn't want to have to try to keep track of two uncertain allies in the woods, not while he was listening and watching for the assassins. Without Blair to help him focus, the ISD agents might distract him.

"Shane, go with him," Cross ordered. "Cassie, stay here and guard."

***

"Save your ammunition,"Uyoga said. "They're out of range."

Ignoring him,Mjusi took one final shot before reluctantly lowering his weapon.

***

Jim took a deep breath. The fresh mountain air smelt of pine and wildflowers; it was a distinct improvement from the odor of his partner's blood. Inside, he'd felt helpless sitting next to Blair's sickbed, and confused by Cross' announcement that he was Blair's father. Outside, he could accomplish something. He hated waiting. Going after the bad guys – that was more his style. Jim took another deep breath, his muscles relaxing without his even realizing it.

"What now?" Shane asked quietly, her voice just above a whisper.

Jim kept his face impassive, managing not to frown. He hadn't wanted her for back-up. Feds were nothing but trouble at the best of times, but these feds …. McBain acted like she'd never touched a gun before, and Phillips had been too eager when Cross had handed her his back-up piece. Between the two of them, they reminded him of _The Andy Griffith Show_, when Sheriff Andy let Barney Fife take the bullet out of his pocket and load his gun. There was something about the three of them that was off, something he just didn't trust. They'd been competent enough about the hotel security, but he had his doubts about how they would handle a combat situation. He didn't want a partner he didn't know and couldn't trust getting them both killed.

"How are you at moving silently in the woods?" Jim demanded.

Shane smiled. As a thief, she had learned to move as silently as a ghost. "I can manage."

"Good. You go that way," the sentinel pointed right, "and I'll go this way. Based on the angle of fire, they're in front of the cabin and to the sides, hidden in the trees. We'll try to flank them."

She nodded and slipped away.

Jim worked his way to the front of the cabin, ducking behind the lilac hedge for cover. He fired one shot in the general direction of the assassins. Almost immediately they fired back. Jim gave an evil grin. Now that he knew where they were, it was easy to aim. Using his superior hearing, he shot at the source of the bullets. He fired four times, then listened again. He heard the labored breathing of a wounded man, and foreign words whose meaning he could not comprehend, but by the tone and context had to be profanity.

Shane fired, and Jim heard more cuss-words in Swahili, or perhaps Luganda.

Jim searched the trees for the glint of metal, for the reflection of the sun on their guns. He listened. And he fired again

When two cars from the Thurston County Sheriff's Office arrived, one assassin was dead. The other three were wounded, bandaged, bound, and gagged.

***

Cross knocked on the half-open door of the hospital room. "May I come in?"

"Sure." Blair indicated the attractive redhead standing beside his bed. "This is my wife, Megan Connor. Agent Cross."

Megan extended her hand. "You're the chap Sandy was working with on the Moyo'ema case. Pleased to meet you."

Cross raised an eyebrow at the nickname 'Sandy.' As he shook hands with her, he asked, "I hate to impose, but could I borrow your husband for a few minutes?"

"Debriefing, huh?" The Australian woman nodded. "I'll go get a cup of coffee."

"Thank you." He waited until Megan Connor Sandburg shut the door behind herself. "I'm not here for a debriefing. I came to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

"It's my fault you were shot," Cross confessed glumly.

"You didn't pull the trigger."

"You wouldn't have been shot if I hadn't requested you and your partner to work on Dr. Moyo'ema's security detail. And in requesting you … I broke a promise to your mother."

"What?"

"I knew your mother, thirty years ago."

Blair did the math. His face went white.

"I didn't know Naomi had a son until you were 15. When I found out about you, I tracked Naomi down. I asked if we could do a paternity test."

Blair looked up at the spy expectantly.

"She refused permission for testing. She asked me to stay away," said Cross.

"Mom did what?" Blair was flabbergasted.

"She agreed I might be your father. She said she hoped I wasn't. She accused me of selling out to the Establishment."

Blair glanced pointedly at Cross' short hair, his suit and tie. "Did you?"

Cross shook his head. "I joined the ISD for the same reason I protested against 'Nam: I wanted to stop good men from throwing their lives away in useless wars. Somewhere along the way I joined the Establishment, but I didn't sell out."

"You were an anti-Vietnam protester?"

"That's how I met your mother. She was the most vibrant, most alive person I'd ever met. Passionate about the peace moment, the environment, about life in general. Beautiful, intelligent … I'd never met anyone like her before." His brown eyes took on a faraway look.

"You sound like you're still half in love with her," Blair observed.

"She was a difficult woman to forget." _Especially for a boy of sixteen_, he thought. "It hurt when she told me to stay away from you, to stay out of her life – and yours." He sighed. "But I was a field agent at the time. I didn't want anyone to go after me by hurting you, so I agreed to what she wanted."

Blair nodded. He'd seen that sort of thing too many times, both as a police observer and as a cop.

"If I'd kept my promise, you wouldn't be lying here in a hospital bed."

"I'm a cop. Risks are part of the job." Blair took a deep breath. "So my Dad is James Bond. Cool."

"Hardly James Bond." Cross smiled wryly.

"You said you were a field agent," Blair realized. "Aren't you one any more?"

"Actually, I'm the director of ISD's west coast offices," Cross admitted.

"So you're M rather than Bond. Still cool. You were on this mission personally because Moyo'ema is so important, or –"

"Because of you." Cross relaxed slightly. This was going much better than he had dared to hope. "I might be your father. I hope I am; any man would be proud to claim you as his son. But I don't know. Since you're already being poked and prodded and having blood drawn every ten minutes, would you be interested in a DNA test?"

Blair inhaled sharply. For years he'd wondered who his father was. All his mother had ever said was that there was a long list of candidates, up to and including Timothy Leary. He thought long and hard -- for at least a nanosecond. "Yes."

"Thank you. Your mother knows I work for the government. She doesn't know I'm with ISD. I'd prefer to keep it that way, at least for now."

"Gotcha."

There was a knock at the door. Megan peeked in. "Is it safe to come back?"

"I'm done here, for now. Thank you for your indulgence, Ms. Connor." He resisted the urge to kiss his daughter-in-law on the cheek. "Thank you again, De- " He corrected himself. "Blair." Turning to Megan, he said, "Take good care of him."

Megan watched as Cross left, then turned to Blair. "What was that all about?"

"You'd better sit down. I've got something to tell you."

***

Blair hurried when he heard the knock on the door. He opened it, and saw Cross standing there, a large manila envelope in his hand.

"I've got the results," the spymaster announced. Although he'd faced terrorists and heads of state with utter aplomb, he couldn't quite conceal the tinge of nervousness in his voice.

"C'mon in," Blair invited.

"Is it your dad, Sandy?" Megan called from the living room.

"We'll find out in a moment," Blair said, as he ushered Cross into the living room. He waved a hand at the couch in invitation.

Cross eyed Blair, examining him carefully before he sat down. "You're looking better." He turned to the redhead sitting in the chair by the window. "Hello, Megan."

She nodded at him, unsure whether to call him Dad, Mr. Cross, or what.

Cross glanced curiously around the room. It fit Blair and Megan: bookshelves jam-packed with old textbooks, mostly anthropology, but also history, sociology, criminology, and mathematics, next to Tom Clancy and Agatha Christie paperbacks, a new set of Encyclopedia Britannica next to Jane Austen and Isaac Asimov, a battered, obviously much used dictionary beside Emily Dickinson and Eudora Welty, tribal figurines and curios from four different continents, travel posters in brass frames. The furniture was comfortable, but not fancy.

"I should be off desk duty in a few days," Blair acknowledged. "Have you looked at them yet?"

"No, I thought it would be better if we saw them together," confessed Cross.

From the kitchen boomed a deep voice: "A few days? Try a week or two, Chief." Jim Ellison emerged from the kitchen. "Yo, Cross, can I get you a beer?"

"Thanks."

"Michelob or Foster's ?"

"Foster's, if you have it."

Blair glanced pointedly at the triptych of Australian posters on the wall: Sydney harbor with the famous opera house presiding over it, Ayers Rock, and Kuranda rain forest in Queensland. "With an Aussie wife? We always have Foster's in the house," he said. He looked down at the envelope. "Do you want to open it, or should I?"

Cross mused wryly that as anxious as they both were, perhaps it would be safer if they waited for Jim to come with the beer and hand it to him, or perhaps give it over to Megan. Taking a deep breath, he passed the envelope to Blair. "You do it."

In the kitchen, as Jim fetched beer from the refrigerator, he could hear the difference in Blair's heart rate as he took the envelope. He listened to the sharp inhalation of his partner's breath as he hunted through the disorganized cupboard for the potato chips. He heard the tear of paper as the envelope opened, and hurried into the living room so he could see the results firsthand.

Blair stared at the paper. Cross looked down at it.

"Well, what's it say?" Megan demanded when the two men said nothing.

Jim frowned as he stepped into the room. He could tell by their reactions what the paper said. Without a word, he set the tray on the coffee table and laid a hand on Blair's shoulder.

"It's negative. He's not my – we're not related," Blair announced.

"I'm sorry," Cross said. He uncrossed his fingers, and hoped no one had noticed the superstitious gesture. Especially since it hadn't worked. He reached out for the beer can and drained half of it in one gulp. "I was hoping …."

"Yeah. Me, too." Blair reached for his own beer, but held it in his hand, unopened. Sighing, he forced a calm expression on his face that he didn't feel. "Well, back to a long list of candidates, up to and including Timothy Leary." Timothy Leary, Abbie Hoffman, Davy Jones, Mickey Dolenz …he sighed again, not wanting to contemplate the list of names that no longer included Quentin Cross.

An awkward silence encompassed the four of them, followed by an even more awkward spate of small talk in an attempt to fill the silence.

After a moment, Cross asked, "May I borrow your bathroom?"

"Sure, as long as you put it back," Blair joked half-heartedly.

"Down the hall, first door on the left," Megan directed him.

Cross nodded and left the room. He paused outside the bathroom door. Whispering too quietly for anyone but a sentinel to hear, he said, "Ellison, do me a favor. Don't tell Blair about the scholarships and grants. I don't want him feeling obligated to pay me back."

In the living room, Jim sipped his beer. He nodded his head almost imperceptibly as he reached for a handful of potato chips. He'd keep the secret of Quentin Cross' charity. He just wished he could do something to console his partner at the disappointment of not finding his father … especially this man, who would've been worthy of being Blair's father.


End file.
